


Confessions

by Suspicious_Sushi



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 12:44:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17787650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suspicious_Sushi/pseuds/Suspicious_Sushi
Summary: Rhett pours his heart out in a letter to Link.





	Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I've had anxiety all day and writing helps me sort through it. This was made from that.

> A crumpled ball of paper flies through the air and lands amongst a pile of others just like it, scattering them across the floor. Rhett didn't realize going into this was gonna be so damn frustrating. Huffing out a sigh of aggravation, he stands up and begins to pace his office.
> 
> He laughs quietly to himself; he would look insane to anyone who could walk in on him right now. His hair probably looks disastrous considering the amount of times he's run his fingers through it. Untamed and wild, the strands are as chaotic as his thoughts. The floor is littered with discarded half written letters. Each of them containing shakily written words, now scribbled over, the whole sheet squeezed into oblivion and tossed away.
> 
> He's not sure why he's even doing this. It’s way too late now. Too much time has gone by with too many missed chances. He just can’t get Link’s constant expressions of disappointment out of his head. His dejected glances everytime Rhett pulls away. The constant tension is eating away at him, at them both. They don’t (he won’t) bring it up. But it’s there, pulsing beneath the surface, racing like his heartbeat.
> 
> This tension has haunted him so much recently that he finally falls prey to the impulsive decision to do something,  _ anything _ , about it that it pulls him from bed at 2 in the morning to write Link a letter. 
> 
> He grits his teeth and runs his hands through his hair again. He can feel his fingers shaking as they catch on some tangled knots. He rips through them anyway, ignoring the sharp tug of pain as some strands pull from his scalp.
> 
> He’s on the verge of giving up and going back to bed. Back to his wife, who is sleeping blissfully unaware of the turmoil her husband is going through. Back to his life of being a husband, a father, a  _ love you like a brother _ best friend, a business partner. Because in his mind, if he writes this letter; pours out a part of him that’s lingered deeply inside himself for decades, he’s risking to lose it all. That invisible line he hasn’t let himself even fathom crossing could be his undoing. It would be so easy to smother it down inside, let it join the other secrets he’s too scared to bare.
> 
> Bailing.  **Again.**
> 
> After they finished recording  _ that _ episode and they retreated quietly into their shared office he almost told Link everything. The air was so thick he almost couldn’t breathe. He remembers standing there after he closed the door, watching Link settle himself on the couch with his laptop. He remembers Link looking up at him and asking him what was wrong. Remembers the small frown creasing between his eyebrows as he closed the laptop and regarded Rhett curiously. Remembers that when his vision blurred with unshed tears and he turned away how shaky Link’s voice was when he begged,  **begged** Rhett to tell him what was on his mind. Even then, he couldn’t do it. Made up a stupid excuse. Lied his way out of the situation. Bailed. 
> 
> Determined, Rhett takes a seat at his desk again. Brings pen to paper and just starts writing. Fuck eloquent words, fuck proper sentence structure. He just writes. Pure, raw, and emotional. He unleashes everything his heart holds and transforms it into physicality. Anything he can think of he writes down. One page turns to two, turns to three. A compilation of everything he’s ever held inside appears onto the blue lines of loose leaf. 
> 
> He writes about how it didn’t feel as wrong as it was preached to them as kids but he was scared. He writes about tanned shoulders and freckles and gangly limbs filling out with muscle. He writes about Cape Fear river. About the talking rocks and blood oaths. About bike rides and cemetery rendezvous late at night. About sleepovers and mindlessly driving around the countryside listening to Merle Haggard. He writes about college and dorm rooms and wrestling. About the studio in Fuquay and the road trip to L.A. About touring and hotel rooms. About their wives and kids. About how through it all, Link was his constant. How through it all, Link was, _is_ , there with him. How he still gets butterflies when he looks at him. About even after all this time he’s still in awe of Link. How after everything they’ve accomplished he can’t help but regret the one thing he wanted most, pass them by. The one part of his life that should have been as easy as the breath entering and leaving his lungs, will now be something that didn’t happen and he’ll grieve it until his dying day. He writes that he’s sorry. Not only to Link, but to himself. He writes how sorry he is that it’s taken this long to admit, and how sorry he is that it can’t be something they can achieve now. The fork in the road that they both avoided due to some deep seated fear is now something they avoid because of the repercussions. 
> 
> How most of all, when it’s there, staring him in the face as real as it’s ever been, that he keeps running from it. But it’s there. It’s real. And at the end of the letter, he writes that he loves him. Like a brother,  _ more than a brother _ , like a best friend, like a part of himself. He loves him more than he could ever express in this universe, or the multiple universes that he’s gone on rants about. And that no matter what, those feelings will never change. 
> 
> When he’s finished, his hand is cramping from how tightly he held the pen. His face is wet from tears that he let flow as freely as the words on the paper. He carefully folds the papers up and gently slips them into an unmarked envelope. He then places the letter into his desk and slowly closes the drawer. He cleans up the mess he’s made, composes himself, and quietly leaves the room.


End file.
